


a stained glass variation of the truth

by illuminatedcities



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Parallel Universes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 12:03:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6005236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Will the multiverse collapse if you stay?" John asks, stroking nonsense-patterns against the skin of your shoulder.  "Yes," you say, straight-faced. </p>
<p>In which Harold is a dimension-traveler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a stained glass variation of the truth

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sky for lovely, speedy beta work. <3
> 
> Title lyrics are from "Neptune" by Sleeping At Last.

_01._

_Your name is Harold Finch. Sometimes you blink and something shifts in you and you open your eyes in a different universe than the one you left. Sometimes you meet yourself there. Sometimes you meet somebody who isn't like you at all._

“... Harold?” John says.

You look around. A dive bar, dark wood and beer stains on the tables. John is wearing a black leather jacket. He hasn't shaved in days. There are photos on the wall, military insignia. Ah, yes.

“What happened?” You ask, stiffly climbing onto the bar stool next to him. You don't order a drink: you don't know if alcohol interferes with your gift, but you're not too eager to find out. You don't want to end up trapped between dimensions.

“You know damn well what happened,” John snaps and drains his Scotch.

A lapse in time then, too. How inconvenient, that there is no accuracy to these things at all. Apparently you ended up some days after Joss Carter's death.

“I know that you cared about her very much,” you say.

The pain on his face is unbearable: you want to reach out and caress the harsh lines of worry away with your fingertips. Not that he'd let you. That comes later.

“It wasn't _fair_ ,” John says. He sounds defeated, and that gets to you more than anything.

“No, it really wasn't fair,” you say. Something tugs at you, the pull of invisible strings. _Oh, this soon?_ “You should come home, John.”

He looks at you. “I don't have a home,” he says.

You try to keep yourself in the moment, keep yourself _there._ “You always have a home with me,” you manage. You mumble an apology and stumble out of the bar, nauseous, you just need – you need –

 

_02._

_You're a man of science: hypothesis, data, results. You see snowflakes and think of fingerprints, infinite variables, intriguing puzzles. You knew that you had a gift since you were little, but you have not yet found the science to explain it._

_You remember that father sitting on the porch, surrounded by birds. (A flock of ravens is called an unkindness, you have always found that peculiar.) You think that maybe his gift was the ability to talk to them. They visited him every day. They kept visiting him even when he was losing his memory, the light in his eyes. They brought him gifts: the metal ring from a soda can, a lost earring, a paper bag. Why would you call it an unkindness, you think, that doesn't make any sense. The birds kept coming even after he had died, like serene shadows paying their respects in your back yard. What could be kinder than that?_

Some of the universes are just like yours. You see yourself on the day you met John, at Arthur's funeral, even once at IFT with Nathan. Time is a strange phenomenon: you never care about it right until the moment when it's all that matters.

Some universes are different: you didn't meet Nathan, or you didn't meet John. There is one where Nathan works the numbers with you, one where you ran away with Grace. A million crossroads, choices, flipped coins.

The next time you travel, you wake up at Central Park. The air is chilly and the leaves are red and golden brown. You hear a dog barking, and then Bear is sniffing at your feet, wagging his tail.

“Harold?” John comes running after him, leash in hand. He looks reasonably content. “I thought you wanted to stay at the library, get some work done.”

You shrug. “I thought I could use some fresh air,” you say. “Walk with me.”

 

03.

_The thing is: you know John, every quirk of his lips and every cadence of his voice. You know him better than you know yourself. If you have learned anything from this, from revisiting your own life over and over again, it's that choices don't matter, that it doesn't matter what happens: people are the same. There are parts of them that are always the same._

You seem to stay in the moment for a while. You never know if you should tell the people you meet who you are, where you come from. You never know if you will stay for long enough for it to matter.

“Is everything alright?” John asks. “You're very quiet, even judging by your standards.”

You finish your ice-cream cone. Bear is running around in the park, barking with excitement. It's a beautiful day. “I am not who you think I am,” you say.

John isn't thrown by that. “Okay,” he says.

You look at him: his salt and pepper hair, his long, dark lashes, the amused slant of his mouth. Sometimes you miss him so much it's like your heart refuses to beat, shouting _What is the point?_ right in the middle of your chest.

“Tell me,” John says. So you do.

 

_04._

_You always wonder if you change something in the universes you visit: leave a footprint, set events in motion. You wonder what you might do if you ever traveled to a critical moment: would you change anything, now that you know the outcome of one decision? It's hard to tell. Mostly you watch, and try not to meet yourself. For some reason, you often travel to where that universe's John is. You don't know if that is because your life and his are connected or because you so desperately wish to see his face._

“I don't believe in parallel universes,” John says.

“They exist, whether you believe in them or not,” you tell him. You of all people should know.

John frowns. “So you're saying, if I called you at the library right now, you'd be there. And also here.”

“Give it a try,” you say.

John looks suspicious, but he moves a hand to his ear and turns on the earpiece. “Harold?”

You can see his eyes widen in surprise. “No, it's nothing,” he says. “Just checking in. Enjoy your day off.”

John blinks a few times. “Okay,” he says. He looks at you like you're something valuable, something to be touched with white, soft gloves.

“Do you believe me?” You ask.

John shrugs, at a loss.

"Your father taught you to drive, or he wanted to, before you put the family car into the wall of your neighbor's house," you say. John takes a deep, steadying breath. You have all of these stories in you, you just have to let them spill from your tongue. "You wanted a dog as a child, but your parents couldn't afford it, so you went to the animal shelter every weekend, cleaning the bowls and walking the dogs there. You were in a hotel room in Mexico when the towers came down and it was the last time you were happy, in the moments right before, with Jess."

“You know these things because you know everything about me,” John says carefully.

“I know these things because you _told_ me,” you say.

 

05.

_You know the number pi down to 47 digits but you do not know how to come home._

You and John talk until the sun goes down. It's mostly you who does the talking: you explain string theory, the universes you've seen. You tell your stories like you've been taking a long vacation and have finally returned. This John is achingly familiar: his sadness, the quiet hope in his eyes, the way he hides his smile behind his hand. John keeps glancing at the ring on your finger, but he doesn't ask.

“How about your universe?” He asks. “Are things very different there?”

You don't know how to answer that. You close your hands around the warmth of the paper cup filled with steaming tea, try to soothe the same old ache.

“Many things, but it's also very much the same,” you say. You don't know if that makes any sense to him, but he nods.

“You're married,” he says. “That's different. My – This Harold isn't, as far as I know.”

You touch the ring without meaning to. “He's dead,” you say. You said it to yourself so many times, staring at your reflection in the mirror. He's dead. He's dead. _He's dead._

“I'm sorry,” John says.

 

06.

_You think about computers and machines: if only you could make yourself into something that consists of numbers and code and wires; if only you could figure out how to feel less._

_(If only you could stop searching for his face in a crowd.)_

It's dark and you should find a place to stay if you're going to be in this universe for a while, but John has his hand on the small of your back when you're crossing the road and it's more comfort, more indulgence than you care to admit. He looks at you like you're his lifeline, like there's salt water rising in his lungs already.

“I'm sorry about the person you lost,” John says, after a while. He swallows. “Was it – was it Nathan?”

"Oh, John.” You reach out for John's hand and then stop yourself.

The realization on his face is happening slowly, terribly. “Come home with me,” he says, roughly.

A foregone conclusion, that one: as if you could ever say no to him.

 

_07._

_You reach out to touch him on instinct, like gravity pulling you down to him. It's like your heart doesn't understand the meaning of quantum physics: not this world, not this universe. This is not the man you held in your arms, he just looks like him._

"Please," John says, "touch me."

It's all new for him, you think, every touch, every moment with you. John kisses you hungrily, like he's starving and has been presented with an elaborate, home-cooked meal.

“Harold,” he says, pressing his lips against your temple, the line of your jaw.

He lives in the apartment you gave him, or, no: _the other Harold_ gave him. It doesn't matter, it is the same place, and you know every inch of it, the contents of every drawer and cupboard; you've spent so much time there.

You stumble into the bedroom with him. His hands are shaking on your skin. “Say my name,” he says, desperate, greedy.

“John,” you say, and he shudders in your arms even though you have barely touched him. _“John.”_

 

08.

_You watch John undress and something stirs in you, urgent, overwhelming: stay, stay, stay, like a prayer in your chest, like an extra heartbeat._

John wants everything, and _now_ , or better yet, five minutes ago. He undresses with ruthless efficiency and then works on the buttons of your waistcoat, stripping you.

“What do you want?” you ask, stroking his face.

John looks feverish with arousal. His cock is very hard when you touch it, and John thrusts into your grip, gasping in surprise. “Fuck me,” he says, “please, Harold.”

“Of course,” you hear yourself say, “Of course, John, my dearest, anything.”

You take your time even though he almost shakes apart under your hands when you stretch him open, moaning into the pillow, his hands clenched into the sheets.

“Please, Harold, now,” he says.

You kiss his sweat-slick back and obey, and oh, you remember this, the white hot rush of ecstasy, the sounds John makes when you push into him, wrap a hand around his cock and stroke in time with your thrusting.

He gasps beneath you, every part of his body so familiar to you, like a beloved novel you have read many times. You feel him approaching orgasm by the way he tenses, the helpless stutter of his hips into your hand.

“Come for me, my darling, _John._ ”

He keens and spills over your hand, and you thrust into him, once, twice, until it takes you over the edge, too.

 

09.

_You wait for the moment when you disappear, but it doesn't come._

John lies with his head in your lap. You comb through his hair, scratch lightly at his scalp with your fingernails. He sighs, deeply content.

After a long time, he speaks again. “How did he die? The John in your universe.”

"He did something excruciatingly stupid," you say.

John smiles at you, painful, scared, like you could destroy him with a single word. (You could.)

“I understand if you don't want to talk about it,” John says.

You wait for the pain to subside enough so that you can speak. "A bullet to the chest," you say.

"Was it aimed at him?" John asks. He is naked, the sheets pooling around his hips. There is a pattern of scars on his chest and belly like a map, of roads or trains or hidden, dangerous things.

"No," you say. “It was aimed at me.”

You take John's hand in yours. Oh, all the times you have done this, all the times you have kissed his knuckles, held his hand. _In sickness and in health_ , you think, hysterically. Mostly in sickness: he got hurt a lot in their line of work. "He will hate you," you say, suddenly, when John is already starting to drift off to sleep.

John blinks at you. “What do you mean?”

"If you throw yourself in front of him, and die in his place. He might never admit it, but. There is a part of him that will hate you for leaving,” you say.

"Would still be worth it," John says. He kisses your wrist like a promise.

You feel his pulse with your fingertips. "You only say that because you aren't the one who's being left behind."

 

_10._

_"I trust you," you always said to him, because "I love you" is meaningless to you. Love is irrational, flawed, a scientific inaccuracy. Trust, on the other hand, is everything._

John naps, but you don't dare to fall asleep. What if you fall out of this dimension again, wake up in another one, or, worse: on your own, alone in your bed.

"Ask me anything," you say to him, when he stirs beside you. "I'm not drugged, this time."

"I don't want to know," John says, mouthing at your shoulder without opening his eyes.

You laugh. "Of course you do, John," you say, chiding.

"Not if you just tell me," John says. He looks at you, disarmingly honest. "I want to earn it."

"You've earned it enough, don't you think? After everything you've done."

John shakes his head a little. He seems to wake up all the way now, his mouth quirking into an amused smile. He draws back the covers and climbs between your legs.

You stroke his shoulders, run your nails over the sensitive skin of his neck. "I, ah. I could tell you where I grew up. About my school, the time. The time at MIT," you say, already out of breath from the way he touches you.

He puts his mouth on you and you stop talking. You listen to the soft, desperate noises that rise up from your own chest like a prayer.

 

_11._

_John sleeps next to you and it feels like benediction. Then you look at the clock and realize that you could disappear, dissolve into thin air any second. Maybe you're in hell, and this is your punishment: to get what you want most, only to have it taken away._

You wake him up again.

“Stay with me,” you say. You kiss the nape of his neck, every scar on his shoulders.

“I'm not the one who is traveling between dimensions,” John says. He turns onto his back and draws you down to kiss you, his fingertips resting against your throat.

You kiss and caress each other's skin aimlessly. You have no idea what time it is, or what day. You don't care.

"Will the multiverse collapse if you stay?" John finally asks, stroking nonsense-patterns against the skin of your shoulder.

"Yes," you say, straight-faced.

John bares his teeth in a wolfish smile. "I don't believe you," he says, biting your shoulder playfully.

"I said I wouldn't ever lie to you," you say. Your hand is warm against the nape of his neck.

“You did. You _saved_ me," John says, helpless.

You want to tell him so many things, you can barely figure out where to start. “I didn't save you,” you finally say, because this seems important, maybe more important than anything. “I am the reason that you _died._ ”

He pulls you close. After a moment, John says. "You're a good man."

You close your eyes. "Maybe in this universe," you say.

 

12.

_You can't imagine a universe in which you know him and do not love him._

You doze off and then startle awake with a gasp, but he is still there, looking at you.

"You should stay," John says, earnest and so, so, tender, and something breaks open inside of you.

You want to stay and keep him all for yourself. You want to reach inside of his rib cage and keep John's heart like a hummingbird in your hands, _yours yours yours_ , where no one can ever hurt him again.

"How did it happen?" He asks. “You and me, in the other universe. How did we... end up together?”

"I turned back. I came back to you,” you say. “On the bridge, when I was planning to exchange myself for Grace. I was going to do it, and then you looked at me, and I couldn’t leave you behind.” You wonder if you're closing a wound in him with your words, or opening one. “I walked back to you and I said: ' _You're all that matters.'_ ”

John nods. He doesn't make a sound while he's crying, but you already knew that.

 

13.

_Maybe you have always known that these things would be tragedies._

You feel the familiar tug when you're having breakfast together, the sunlight streaming into John's kitchen. You stand up and grab him, kiss him. You can't seem to stop kissing him, cradling his face in your hands. He covers your hands with his. “You need to tell him,” you say.

John stares at you in confusion. “Harold,” he says, weakly.

“The other me,” you say. “You need to tell him how you feel. He loves you. He loves you more than--” Your voice is shaking. You wonder if this is what dying feels like. Maybe one of these days, you'll find out. “He loves you.”

John's hands tighten around your wrists. You focus on his face when you feel yourself slipping away, try to hold onto it like an anchor. Then you blink and he is gone.

 

\-- fin

**Author's Note:**

> "Living backwards!" Alice repeated in great astonishment. "I never heard of such a thing!"
> 
> "—but there's one great advantage in it, that one's memory works both ways."
> 
> "I'm sure mine only works one way," Alice remarked. "I can't remember things before they happen."
> 
> "It's a poor sort of memory that only works backwards," the Queen remarked.
> 
> \-- "Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There," By Lewis Carroll


End file.
